


The Warrior, the Sage, the Little Boy Enraged

by capsicleonyourleft



Series: Dead Bruce [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11542374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.





	The Warrior, the Sage, the Little Boy Enraged

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references Bruce’s canonical death in Final Crisis and relies heavily on the Superman: New Krypton storyline. To those unfamiliar, here is a brief synopsis of the events and timeline relevant for the purpose of this fic: Clark liberates the bottled city of Kandor from Brainiac, freeing thousands of Kryptonians, including his aunt and uncle, to live on earth; Jonathan Kent dies from a heart attack while Clark is off-world dealing with Brainiac; shortly after that, Bruce seemingly dies after being hit by Darkseid’s omega beams; humans and Kryptonians don’t get along, Clark’s uncle gets assassinated, and Clark’s aunt eventually relocates their people to another planet to serve as New Krypton.

****  
  


Reporters rush in and out of the Daily Planet offices in pursuit of the latest scoop, shoes squeaking and clicking on the floor. Others are hunched over their computers, racing to meet the print deadline, each keystroke as loud as a bullet. One floor down, the refrigerator in the break room emits a low hum. Ten blocks away, a car alarm is blaring on the street and a dog starts barking. There are other indistinct sounds he can’t isolate, nor can he manage to block them out. He hears all of it, and he hears none of it. 

He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder, swivelling his chair to find Jimmy leaning against his cubicle. Judging by the worried expression contorting his face, he must’ve been trying to gain Clark’s attention for some time. Clark watches his mouth move, the thunderous  _ tick tick tick _ of his wristwatch making it impossible to concentrate on the individual sounds that make up the words. Bruce had not been wrong to insist lip-reading would be a useful skill to pick up. 

“—ark? You okay, buddy?”

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafts into the room from the shop across the street, so overpowering that Clark can taste it in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in a rush, fighting the urge to gag. He reaches under his glasses to rub at his aching eyes, squinting against the too-bright fluorescent lighting and the glare from his computer screen. It takes a full five seconds to realize what a colossal mistake like that could cost him, and he lets the frames slide back onto his nose, hoping the slip-up went unnoticed. 

_ Stupid, _ the voice in his head berates. It sounds remarkably like Bruce.  _ Stupid and reckless. _

Jimmy frowns and bites his lip. “You’ve been staring at that article for, like, forty minutes.”

Clark turns back to glance at his computer. He’d been searching the Gotham Gazette archive when he stumbled upon an article about the charitable work of the Wayne Foundation. A picture of Bruce accompanies the headline, looking handsome and respectable in a tailored suit. It was taken at a recent fundraiser, where he had given a speech about building a brighter future for Gotham, about believing in the city and its people. The small, private smile on his face is what makes the photo remarkable—not the patented smirk Bruce Wayne would wear in public, but a warm, genuine twitch of his lips. Cassandra had been in attendance that evening, and Bruce kept his focus on her as he spoke, his smile that of a proud father. 

Clark’s heart lurches at the memory. Will details like that eventually begin to fade? Given time, will he forget the rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat, like an old song whose tune can be recognized but never recalled? Will he forget the sound of his voice? Not the low growl of the Bat or the charming lilt of his public persona, but the deep, rich cadence that belonged to  _ Bruce _ , with its notes of grief and sorrow. Batman and Bruce Wayne each leave behind a legacy, but they were a mask and a performance. The man underneath was known to so few, and the realization he’s the one who doesn’t get to live on leaves Clark hollow.

As far as the public is concerned, both Bruce Wayne and Batman are alive and well. It required impeccable planning and execution, of course, but that was Bruce down to his core: always ten steps ahead of everyone else, always a contingency plan for even the most inconceivable scenario. His own death was hardly that, of course, but Clark never imagined it would go completely unacknowledged. 

“I just…. have a lot on my mind,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from breaking. 

_ I lost my dad and best friend within weeks of each other, _ is what he doesn’t get to say, what he aches to cry out.  _ They’re dead. _ The words crawl up his throat like bile, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue as he bites his lip to trap them, nothing but a thought for him to choke on. 

“You know, Chief’s in a good mood today,” says Jimmy, gesturing toward Perry’s office with his thumb. Clark tries and fails to hide a flinch as Perry’s assistant begins stapling stacks of documents. “I bet he’d let you take off early, if you ask.”

There is truth to that. Despite his gruff exterior, Perry is a kind man; he has been taking it easy on Clark since his return from bereavement leave, assigning fluff pieces that required little time and effort. Just as Superman was powerless where it mattered most, Clark Kent could offer nothing of substance. 

“No,” Clark says, even as a splitting headache assaults his temples and his X-ray vision flickers on and off. He hadn’t lost control over his senses like this since his abilities first started developing. The buzzing in his ears gets worse and he barely resists the instinct to cover them. Maybe, he thinks, his eardrums will finally give out and rupture.  “I need the distraction.”

“Well, all right, if you say so,” Jimmy concedes, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “If there’s anything you need, pal… just say the word.”

Though he means the gesture to be genuine, the smile that stretches Clark’s mouth is strained, pulling on muscles he thought had atrophied over the last few weeks. “Thanks, Jimmy,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

After Jimmy disappears down the hall, Clark turns towards Lois’ empty cubicle with a sigh, craving the comfort of her company. Her investigation in Washington pertains specifically to New Krypton, and he’s beyond grateful for the work she’s putting in.

He pulls out his phone, intending to return Diana’s message from a couple days ago. Scrolling through his recent calls, he tenses when he reaches Pa’s number. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to delete it, and he stares at it for a long time.

He doesn’t make a single call.

 

***

 

They always believe they can outrun him, Clark notes with exasperation, wondering if Flash often encounters the same issue. He wraps a metal pole around the three robbers he captured before turning to deal with the two who’d taken off by foot. As they run, the robbers turn to shoot at him, the bullets ricocheting off of Clark’s chest. Really, will they ever learn? 

Busy as they are emptying their ammo on Clark’s chest, they don’t notice the dark figure that descends from above. Clark hardly needs the assist, but he stops and watches as the first robber is knocked down with a swift kick to his back. Wide-eyed, the second robber turns his attention to the figure, aiming the gun in his direction. Batman avoids it with ease, performing a flip right over the robber, kicking his legs as soon as he lands behind him. There’s fluidity to the way he moves, like poetry in motion. If Clark didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was flying. 

The man aims his gun at Batman’s head a second time, but his reflexes are no match to the vigilante’s. Batman grabs his arm and twists, the sound of bone breaking almost as loud as the man’s scream. The gun scatters out of his grip, sliding on the ground until it lands at Clark’s feet. 

“Was that really necessary?” Clark says, folding his arms over his chest. He steps on the barrel of the gun, assuring it cannot be fired but still admissible as evidence. 

Batman makes quick work of tying up the two robbers, police sirens wailing in the distance. “It’s a clean break,” he responds. Clark’s X-Ray vision confirms as much. “We need to talk.”

  
  


They land on a secluded, dark rooftop of a skyscraper, city lights twinkling below them. A quick scan confirms there are no cameras that could compromise them and no aircrafts with a vantage point to capture the exchange. 

Back turned to Clark, Batman observes Metropolis from the landing. He’s as still and silent as a statue, cape billowing in the wind. 

_ You wanted to talk, so talk _ , Clark wants to snap, but bites his tongue. He knows better than to press the issue, but even after all these years, he’s irked at the way Batman monopolizes his time with so little regard. Instead, he puts his hands on his hips, tapping his foot as he waits.

Finally, Batman turns his head to address him. “We’ve got a situation.”

“If this is about New Krypton,” Clark begins, heart hammering in his ribcage, “I’m handling the situation.”

“I’m sorry about Zor-El,” says Batman, the modulator masking any emotion in his voice. He turns fully until they’re facing one another. “I understand your aunt seeks retribution for the attack that took his life.”

Clark clenches his fists. “As I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “I’m dealing with it.”

“Given how personal this situation is for you,” continues Batman, “some in the League are concerned about where your loyalties may lie. If you bothered turning up for a meeting, perhaps you could put those fears to rest.”

Clark feels a muscle in his jaw jump, heat rushing to the surface of his skin. “And what do  _ you _ think, World’s Greatest Detective?”

“Given your aunt’s actions up to this point, I’m concerned about escalating conflict between Earth and New Krypton,” Batman says. “You, of course, will be caught in the crossfire. Your loyalty to the people of Earth, however, has never been in question. I only worry about the psychological effect having to make that kind of decision would have on you.”

The sentiment would mean more, Clark thinks, if he weren't staring at the impassive white lenses of a mask. 

“I also think,” continues Batman, reaching for his cowl, “it’s a necessary discussion we will table for a later time. I’m here on a personal matter, not League business.” 

Clark’s heartbeat speeds up and pulsates in his ears, chest growing tight as he holds his breath. Of course, he knows exactly who he’s been talking to, who inherited the mantle. The distinct way he moves alone would have given it away. Still, in that split second before the mask is removed, there’s the possibility of seeing his friend again. 

A familiar pair of blue eyes meet his gaze, framed by a shock of black hair. The similarity is remarkable.

“Dick,” says Clark, trying to hide his disappointment. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Tim.” Dick takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He thinks Bruce is alive.”

A chill goes down Clark’s spine, body going rigid. “What?”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. There are heavy bags under his eyes. “He… doesn’t believe Bruce is really gone. He’s insisting we have to find him.”

Furrowing his brow, Clark opens and closes his mouth before settling on a response. “But… I don’t understand. He knows what happened. You both saw the body, read the report—”

“I’m aware,” Dick cuts in, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. After a moment, he relaxes his jaw. “I’m worried about him. I think… maybe he’s reaching his limit. He’s lost so much this year alone and now that Bruce is gone… I’m scared of what it might do to him.”

Tim lost a father for the second time, Clark realizes with an aching heart. That on top of the other tragedies that have mired his life.

“Maybe I don’t have any business asking this of you,” Dick continues, “But I don’t know what else to do. He won’t listen to anything Alfred and I have to say on the matter. He refuses to let go. I was hoping that… maybe you could talk to him.”

“Dick,” Clark starts as gently as he can. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for your family. You know that. But if Tim won’t listen to you, what makes you think he’ll want to hear anything I have to say?”

“You were there,” is the curt explanation Dick provides. “You found his body. You… you were there.” Guilt flickers across his face. “Besides, I’m not exactly his favourite person these days. I took away the one thing he had left that meant something to him.” He’s trying so desperately to fill the void Bruce left in everyone’s life, to keep his family from crumbling under the grief. 

Clark thinks of the ten-year-old who’s lost a father he’d hardly gotten to know, hiding his grief behind a Robin costume. “How is Damian?”

“Angry,” Dick says with a sigh, his eyes glazed over and far away. “Lost. Confused. Impulsive.” 

Throughout the years, Clark had seen that same expression on Bruce’s face whenever he thought of Jason, all that he couldn’t do for him. Clark imagines Dick is thinking much the same.

“He’s a good kid,” says Clark. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Tim will come around, too. He loved being Robin, but he loves you more.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Dick says, bowing his head. For a moment, he looks exactly like the little kid Clark first met fifteen years ago. “He’s my brother, and I can’t help him. I don’t know what else to do.”

“All right,” Clark agrees. “I can’t promise it’ll accomplish much, but I’ll talk to him.”

Dick abandons his military stance, rounding his back as some of the tension leaves his body. “Thank you.”

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the traffic below them, the blinding glow of headlights giving Clark a headache. 

“I was thinking,” Clark starts, “About the day you came to see me at the Planet, after Bruce fired you.”

Dick snorts, lips quirking at the memory. “Not his finest moment.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Clark smiles. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone like that. We didn’t speak for three weeks.”

A flash of surprise crosses Dick’s face. “He never told me that.”

“Of course he didn’t. He knew I was right.” Bruce never liked hearing truths he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “You were cultivating an identity of your own, building an independent life, and he feared there might not be any room in it for him.  He was terrified of losing you, so he pushed you away.”

“For all his brilliance, he was a goddamn idiot sometimes.” 

The laugh that rolls off of Clark catches him by surprise, the sound of it foreign to his own ears. For the first time in their conversation, Dick sounds like himself, rather than an imitation of his father. 

It had been so important to Dick to carve a path for himself, to create an identity that was his alone. When he had taken up the mantle of Nightwing, inspired by the Kryptonian myth Clark shared with him, Clark’s chest swelled with pride. Now, the same age Bruce had been when he first donned the cowl, Dick is giving all of that up, relinquishing the life he’s built to preserve a legacy. It’s not the kind of sacrifice someone so young should feel compelled to make.

“Dick,” Clark tries, biting his lip.  The pressure in his chest intensifies, grief squeezing his heart. “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways to honour him.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Dick steels his jaw. “You’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear,” he says, “And I’ve done the same.” 

Clark bows his head, shame flushing his cheeks. The first time he had seen him as Batman, Clark lost it. The words he hurled at Dick were cruel and fuelled by anger, accusing him of parading around in Bruce’s skin.  _ Rao _ , he had nearly lost control of his heat vision, ready to strip Dick of the costume by any means.

When he finds his voice again, his mouth tastes like cotton. “It’s not what he would’ve wanted.”

That much, Clark knows unequivocally.

Dick puts on the cowl, turning away and walking towards the edge of the roof. “It’s what Gotham needs.”

“What about what you need?”

Dick turns his head. “Don’t worry about me, Superman,” is his curt reply before firing his grapple gun. “I’m Batman.”

  
  


***

 

It takes two tries to enter the right security code into the hidden panel, his shaking hands causing him to hit the wrong buttons. Another attempt would have triggered extensive and unpleasant safety measures. Once the fingerprint and retinal scans confirm his identity, the gate swings open with a small creak. 

Clark stands frozen in front of the picturesque property, inspecting its perfectly manicured lawns and impressive architecture. The grounds of the Manor are completely unchanged from the last time he’d visited; nothing to reflect the devastating loss it sustained, the absence of its very soul. It seems impossible, when Clark feels it with every beat of his own heart, every breath drawn from his lungs. 

Leaves crunch under his boots as he begins walking, his legs feeling heavier with every step. The lone figure sitting in front of the unmarked grave doesn’t react to his arrival. Tim has his arms wrapped around his legs, knees drawn to his chest with his chin resting on top of them. The thin t-shirt he’s wearing hangs loosely on his wiry frame, offering little protection from the cold October breeze. His hair is a little longer, falling messily across his forehead.

Clark settles next to him in silence. He’d done the same for Bruce, a few times, as he knelt by his parents’ graves, and later Jason’s, placing fresh flowers on the polished stones. Clark had kept a hand on his shoulder and said nothing as Bruce wept. The only comfort he could offer was his presence; all he could do was bear witness to his friend’s pain, so Bruce wouldn’t have to confront it alone. 

He hasn’t been able to offer the same to Bruce’s family, these past few weeks.

“Wondered if you were going to come by,” Tim says after a time, voice rough with disuse. How long has he been sitting here, cold and immobilized with grief?

The words aren’t accusatory, but guilt still slices Clark like a shard of kryptonite. He shrugs out of his jacket, wrapping it around Tim’s shoulders. Tim doesn’t slide his arms through the sleeves, but doesn’t take it off, allowing it to engulf his smaller frame. 

“Sometimes,” Clark starts, throat going dry as he pushes the words out, “most times, even—” he pauses to wet his lips, staring at his shaking hands. He can feel Tim’s eyes on him as he struggles to speak. “It was so easy to think of him as invincible.” 

Bruce may have been one of few non-powered individuals on a team of metahumans, but there never seemed to be anything he couldn’t do. So much strength, brilliance, and competence that defied all odds. Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.

“He’s out there, Clark,” says Tim. “He’s alive.”

Nothing could have prepared Clark for how excruciatingly painful those words were. He squeezes his eyes shut, a violent lurch unfolding in his chest. Is this how Dick felt, listening to his brother insist Bruce is alive while grappling with his own grief?

“Tim,” he starts, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I know you want that to be true. I know you miss him. We all do, but—” 

“Don’t give me that crap!” Tim snaps, startling Clark into opening his eyes. “I know how it sounds. This isn’t denial, this isn’t grief. Why won’t any of you listen?  _ He’s alive _ .” He takes a deep breath to regain composure, nostrils flaring. Gradually, he schools his features into calm apathy that betrays nothing. 

It reminds Clark so much of Bruce that he has to look away. Outbursts were a rare thing to witness; anger always crackled underneath the surface, but it was always so carefully-controlled, channelled to where it could be used as an advantage.

_ I don’t want him to end up like me _ , Bruce had confessed to Clark only months ago, as Tim grieved his family, forever branded with the loss. On that dark Gotham rooftop, for the very first time, Clark heard fear in his friend’s voice.  _ I can see too much of myself in him. _

“I carried his body in my arms.” Even now, Clark bares its weight; like Atlas, eternally condemned to hold up the sky. “You saw it, too. You heard Dr. Mid-Nite’s analysis. It’s Bruce.”

“You were dead once, too,” says Tim, digging his fingers into the dirt. “It’s practically part of the job description.”

“You know that’s different.” Clark bows his head in shame, staring at his hands. Bruce was only human. Yet, even with all his abilities, Clark had been completely powerless to save him. Just as he’d been too late to save his father. What use were they if he could do nothing to save those he loved?

“Is it?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I can’t hear his heartbeat,” Clark finally says. “If he were—I’d be able to…” he pauses to wet his lips. “I thought that maybe, maybe it was just out of my reach. But I… I looked everywhere. Even went back to Apokolips. I can’t… I couldn’t hear it anywhere, Tim. It’s gone.”

Tim whimpers. When Clark turns to look at him, he has a hand over his eyes. Clark is suddenly reminded of just how painfully young he is. Too young to have lost so much, to shoulder so much of the world. 

He reaches to place a comforting hand on Tim’s shoulder, only to have it knocked away. “There’s an explanation for it. There  _ has  _ to be. We don’t know much about the Omega sanction,” Tim lifts his chin, the knot of muscle at the side of his jaw pulsating.

Clark hangs his head. “I told myself that, too,” he admits. He had used every piece of technology at his disposal to assess different possibilities. Had made Hal replay the scene of Bruce’s death with his ring over and over again, a dozen times, until Hal placed a gentle hand on his back and said,  _ Enough _ .

“He wouldn’t have given up on us,” Tim says, voice breaking. “ _ Any _ of us. You all may have given up on him, but I won’t. I  _ can’t _ . Bruce needs me.”

“There’s a difference between giving up and letting go, Tim.” Even as he says them, the words feel out of place on his tongue. The truth of the matter is, Clark has no idea how to let go.

“Not in this case,” Tim says. “I owe him too much.”

Something heavy settles in Clark’s stomach at that. “That’s not… he would never want you to think that,” he urges, furrowing his brow. “After Jason…” Clark tries, unable to complete the thought. “ _ You _ were the one that saved  _ him _ , Tim. Bruce thought of you as a son long before he signed the dotted line that made it official.”

Tim says nothing to that. “Did you ever tell him?” he asks instead, staring ahead at the unmarked grave. Clark’s expression must reflect his confusion, because Tim elaborates before he can ask. “How you feel about him.”

Loving Bruce had come as naturally as breathing, the feeling festering in his chest for years before he recognized it. Tim’s use of the present tense is accurate, too. Nothing, not even something as finite as death, holds the ability to eradicate all that he feels for Bruce. 

He was fairly certain Bruce felt the same about him. Though they never spoke of it, the tension between them had always been too thick, the air too charged, for it not to be the case. The truth was, Bruce not reciprocating his feelings was not the worst case scenario. Clark knew exactly what would come to pass if he confessed his feelings, and it’s what he dreaded most. Bruce would admit to sharing those feelings, but refuse to allow himself to act on them. Because the mission came first. Because there was no room for something so frivolous and self-indulgent in their lives. Because it was too dangerous. Because of a million reasons Clark couldn’t bear to hear Bruce list.

“I didn’t think he’d wanna hear it,” is what he settles on saying, his voice so small he hardly recognizes it. He’ll never get the chance to now. 

“I’m going to find him,” says Tim, hugging his knees closer to his chest and curling into them. Tears streak down his cheeks, but his voice is determined. “Whatever it takes, I’m gonna find him.” 

Clark shuts his eyes, a tremor passing through his body. “There’s something you should know,” he starts. Speaking the words feels like swallowing stones. “I’m going away for a bit. Maybe… maybe more than a bit. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Tim nods. “New Krypton,” he concludes. Always the detective. “Your family needs you. And mine needs me.” He gets up and dusts the dirt off his clothes before beginning the walk back to the Mansion. 

“Tim,” Clark calls after him. Tim stops but keeps his back turned. “You’re family to me, too. All of you.”

Tim’s entire body droops, as if finally collapsing from the weight chained to it. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think he would’ve wanted to hear it.”

The words hit like a jolt of electricity, crackling down Clark’s spine as he watches Tim walk away. He sits in silence for a long time, pulling at the wet blades of grass beneath his hands, the gravity of his failure slamming square into his chest.

 

Even when he finds the strength to stand, his legs are wobbly, making for a painful trek back to the Mansion. He stands at the front door for ten minutes, staring at the expanse of wood before gathering the courage to ring the doorbell.

When Alfred opens the door, Clark’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him. “Master Clark,” he greets, tone polite. His attire is immaculate as ever, suit crisp and freshly-pressed. It’s his haggard face, however, that belies the change in him, as if he’d aged years in the span of weeks. There are dark circles rimming his eyes, deep lines etched on his skin like battle scars.  _ My son has died _ , he said when Clark and Diana had come to deliver the news, holding Bruce’s ruined uniform like an offering.

“Alfred,” Clark says, his own voice strained. He takes a step forward into the house, only making it through the threshold before he collapses onto his knees. Alfred catches him, his arms infinitely strong, accustomed to handling more weight than he should be able to carry. They don’t waver even when Clark’s entire body convulses with the force of his sobs.

“I’m sorry.” Clark presses the words into Alfred’s jacket, barely more than a whisper. Sorry for not having been around in the last few weeks, leaving Alfred to pick up the pieces of grieving children. Sorry for not being there to save Bruce in time. Sorry for having all these abilities, yet being so powerless, so utterly useless when it mattered most. “I’m so sorry.”

Alfred’s arms tighten around his shaking back, voice wet when he speaks. “It’s all right, son. It’s all right.”

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://superloislanes.tumblr.com/post/162997544471/bruceclark-pg-13-grief-and-loss-summary)


End file.
